


Make a Wish

by MemoryCrow



Category: Once Upon a Time (TV)
Genre: #magic, F/M, Hyperion Heights, Kinship, Memory Alteration, Mental Instability, Older Man/Younger Woman, Predatory, Protection, Understanding, Viewing pornography
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-03-25
Updated: 2018-03-25
Packaged: 2019-04-08 02:47:26
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,967
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14095422
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MemoryCrow/pseuds/MemoryCrow
Summary: I seem to have caught a Weaver/Tilly bug, which is to say a creepy, older man (whom I love) and unstable, younger and quirky woman bug. In my thinking, this takes place before Shhhh, sort of an origin story for the relationship. I don't think the reading order really matters, though.





	Make a Wish

Tilly spoke nonsense and acted like a child. She dressed without any care and sometimes wore costumes. She was occasionally lucid, meeting the eyes of others and smiling; pretty, then. People could be fooled, despite the whimsy of her appearance. Words, sentences came together in logical strings and were not questioned.

Other times, people made wide circles to get around her, hoping to avoid engagement or incident. She walked quickly, talking to herself. She tried to hide beneath her hood and she carried a folded-up chess board, pieces closed inside, like a purse or a suitcase.

She was agitated, but sometimes she was only quiet. Watchful. People felt unpleasantly _known_ under her light blue gaze. She knew things about them, they were certain. They liked her less for it.

Detective Weaver liked her a great deal. Yes, she spewed nonsense. Funny, though, how often he saw meaning in it. It would come to him later, if not always in the moment.

Notably, she didn’t bullshit.

Weaver was tired and world weary and generally sick of people. His tolerance for them had been marginal to begin with. Unlike nearly every woman who’d ever latched onto him, he believed the absolute worst of people. It made him surly and friendless, unlikable in countless ways, and yet it also made him a good detective. At the start of a case, everyone was suspect. From there, motive and opportunity quickly narrowed the field, but no one was off limits for Weaver. It allowed him to see things others missed, things others couldn’t believe.

… But, the _devices_ of people, of women. He no longer had the patience. Once, he might have cultivated a shred of it, generally on behalf of his dick. He could, if pressed, play the game. Those days were done. He had no patience with women who feigned disinterest, or who sent out not-so-subtle signals, waiting for him to step-up and initiate. Games and more games; predictable. Or their eyes dismissed him, altogether, uncharitable towards height and age.

Tiresome. Old hat. Even something blatant, less theater and full of opportunity turned his stomach. An overdone blonde at the bar, dressed to get fucked (and maybe killed), aiming her secondary sexual characteristics at him, like guns blazing. Aiming them at anyone, really.

On the one hand, he could admire and appreciate such a display. On its surface it seemed straightforward, if vulgar. He could work with both straightforward and vulgar. He knew, though, whomever took the bait would be faced with a sense of accusation once the deed was done.

It was false advertising. The woman was surely in heat, looking for dick in an open way. But having got her stud, she would then require him to care. If he didn’t, there were tears and recriminations.

Women; eaters of souls. Even when they held one’s heart in their clever, teasing hands, one dick safely in their wallets, they still needed the assurance of one’s soul, tucked neatly within their own.

_We are one_. No. That wouldn’t do. It wouldn’t do at all. Weaver was not a cleaver-unto. Alone, he was already plural.

By some miracle of brokenness or dysfunction, maybe just nature, Tilly seemed to lack these impulses. Of course, she also showed no interest in Weaver as anything other than a detective, an older man on the periphery of her odd world. Well, that was neither here nor there.

Faced with the wide-pupil gaze of the woman at the bar, the heat-seeking missile in a dress like a nightie, Weaver took a thoughtful sip of his bourbon. With barely a glance, he murmured, “I don’t think so, dearie. I’ve killed things less terrifying than you.”

 

 

Tilly set up pieces on her board. She had devised her own method of play; part traditional, part on-the-spot invention and part oracle. Weaver couldn’t hope to learn her labyrinth-game. He played, more or less following a traditional like of thinking, looking for openings and ambush. With Tilly, he couldn’t really remain three paces ahead. At any moment, an unexpected dragon or salesman? might swoop in. The salesmen were ghastly.

If she crowed and declared victory he took her at her word. She had invisible allies.

Setting up her rooks and pawns, she said, “One of bone, one of ash, one of iron and one of blood.”

“Indeed, dearie?”

Both aping and mocking, she frowned and intoned, “Indeed.”

When she moved her knight, (always white; his pieces were always the black), she made it hop, like a rabbit. She said, “ _Boing! Boing_!”

“Is your knight a rabbit, love? Or does he travel on springs?”

“They all are. Rabbits. Knights are rabbits.”

“Killer rabbits?”

“Yes. Fur covered in blood and eyes wild with violence. You can’t trust a rabbit. Nor a knight. Always taking orders from one jackass or another. _Ah-ha! Boom-boom! Bang-bang_! Lie down, you’re dead.”

“Fucking hell. Again?”

Tilly smiled. “It’s okay. You have dark magic rolling around inside you. Sleeping. It dreams, but it still works. You’ll resurrect, lickedy- split.”

A shiver took Weaver. He felt, as he so often did, that he understood Tilly. In fact, he did not, but meaning seemed to be just behind the wakeful part of his mind, as when a word was on the tip of the tongue. It was there, real and accessible, but shy to come forward and be recognized.

She woke an excitement within him, the sort of excitement that had first led him to detective work. A trail of breadcrumbs, the piecing together of unlikely clues. It made him feel things, and the feeling was not unpleasant.

He leaned back in his seat, watching as she laid his knight aside in a ceremonial, pseudo-burial, preparing it for when it rose again. She sang to herself.

_The moon was haloed and sang a rhyme of rabbits and time_.

 

 

Usually, he visited Tilly in her little room. Tiny and cluttered, it was squalor. In ways, though, she’d made it her own, cozy with toys and books, odds and ends. Glass door-knobs suspended from lengths of ribbon moved lazily in the air and suggested strange openings.

Weaver had felt comfortable with the unspoken arrangement. He arrived, usually with food or a book, maybe an article of clothing, a warm jacket. She allowed him entrance and he enjoyed her peculiar company. Often, he left cash where she would find it.

Then, Tilly showed up at his flat and his comfort level altered. He was not accustomed to Tilly seeking him out. The sight of her, unexpected and at his door, rather excited him. He was mostly solitary, however. Secretive.

“What are you doing here, Tilly?” he softened it with a mild smile.

“A lady came to the troll. She wants to put me where they lock doors, backwards.”

Weaver blinked. Then he thought, _where they lock you in, rather than you locking the world out_. He opened his door to her, allowing entrance.

She seemed younger than she was. She seemed a girl, scabbed knees, torn clothes and fingertips salty from crisps. Circles of troubled, pale lavender beneath her eyes. She wasn’t actually young enough for anyone to force her into care, nor had she committed a crime. He would have to look into who was pestering her, and why.

“Not to fret.” He said. “No one can keep you where you don’t wish to be.”

“If they try, you’ll kill them, eh? Killer rabbit.”

Or at least hurt them. Terrify them. Send them to therapy for PTSD and refuse to pay the bill. Nodding, he agreed, “Kill them, dead-bang.”

“No resurrections.”

“Not for _that_ sort, dearie.”

She seemed relieved and began roaming around his flat. Weaver tensed but watched her with interest. Not anticipating company, he hadn’t tidied up. He hadn’t hidden away those parts of himself he’d rather not have made public. Still. Tilly hid little. Even when she wished to hide thing, secrets came spilling out, willy-nilly.

His flat, though messy, was a great deal nicer than her rabbit hole. It was warm, for a start. It had large windows that looked out over a greener part of the city, a park and nearby cemetery. There was a bedroom as well as a room he’d made into a study. His kitchen had a cozy dining nook.

Tilly wandered here and there, picking something up, putting it down. Through his tension, Weaver began to feel predatory. His eyes stalked. She was in his lair. The girlish, punkish tears in her dark leggings, showing patches of creamy skin, put unsettling thoughts in his head.

She picked up a magazine, and Weaver thought; oh, fuck. Old fashioned, he still liked a bit of skin mag every now and again. Somehow, it felt warmer than the internet, more familiar. A shame he’d long made peace with.

Holding the magazine, Tilly looked up at him with big, cornflower-blue eyes. She sank down to the couch. “ _Dirty buggar_.” She breathed.

Well. True enough. Weaver didn’t quite know what to do with his face or hands. He opted for folding his arms across his chest. He quirked a self-depreciating half-smile.

“I’m afraid so, love. You’ve found me out. Had I known you were coming over, I’d have put it away.”

She didn’t seem interested in what he might have done out of politeness. Still big-eyed, she looked to the magazine and began slowly turning pages. She was absorbed.

It was dangerous. The predatory feeling grew large and was accompanied by the stirrings of an erection of the most lewd nature. Her curiosity, her interest in the pornography was wrecking a merry havoc in his bloodstream. Was her interest erotic? Was she merely thrilled with disgust? Was it just that it was new, a forbidden realm of secret information?

Unfolding his arms, he went to the couch and sat beside her. He needed a drink, he should have poured on for himself. Maybe for her.

Focused on her deep study, she told him, “The flower called ‘white archangel’ can be used in spells to drive away sadness. Mint can cause lust. Even at a distance, it can agitate.” She looked up, meeting his eyes. “ _You_ have no need of mint, do you.”

Weaver blushed. She was very lucid, her focus sharp and clear. Had the pornography focused her? Nodding, he agreed, “I certainly haven’t.”

“Do you like this, then?” Tilly held up the magazine. His tastes were not glossy and glamorous, full make-up and pricey lingerie. His tastes were…. Nasty. Embarrassing, actually. It felt more than strange for Tilly to discover it.

The photograph was very graphic, all wet pussy and an exposed pucker of anus. Somewhere beyond a landscape of hipbones and lower belly was a hazy mountain range of breasts. An unidentified body, somewhere between the absence felt at a murder scene and the attempt at full-blooded life.

Weaver’s erection became full-blooded and lively, so adamant and committed he was dizzy. Both the picture and Tilly’s open curiosity fueled it.

He swallowed. “Yes. I like that.”

Tilly gave a very rakish smile, a bit of a surprise. Part sarcasm, part delight. She said, “You’re a _filthy_ man, detective, No mint for you.”

“No, indeed not.” He agreed.

He sat beside her, silently, while she made a fairly thorough examination. At a pictorial which included a man, standard issue stud, she said, “Oh, _willies_! I like willies.”

Weaver almost choked on his own saliva. He coughed into his fist, trying to cover the shock that rolled aggressively through his body. With a grin, he said, “Do you, dearie?”

She grinned back. She held up the magazine to show him a close-up of almost penetration. His proclivities ran rather genital-centric.

“This one looks right pissed-off.” She pointed to a large, erect penis, in full flush and angry with veins. Weaver’s throbbed in sympathy.

“I suppose it does want soothing.” He said.

“It’s unruly and rude. It wants a spanking.”

What the hell was happening? Weaver felt like the possibilities of stroke or cardiac incident were suddenly very real. He was going to have to start working out and eating right, a dreadful prospect. But… shite. This urchin was running riot in his body. His chest felt hot with little bursts of excitement, his heart alarmingly seized. It colored his face and neck.

Aiming for sardonic, detached, Weaver asked, “Do you know your way around one of those things, Tilly? I’d have taken you for a virgin.”

Her look was sly. Cheeky. She said, “I wasn’t always mad as a hatter, was I.”

The magazine arrived at full penetration; O Glory. As was the photographer’s wont, feeding into the brain’s love of story and detail, there were two frames. One encompassed the couple, bodies locked, faces like The Ecstasy of Saint Teresa. The other closed in on the crux of the holy event; dick in pussy. A painterly abstract of flesh-tones, ruddy shadows of inflammation, highlights of wet shine.

Tilly cooed at it, the little pigeon. A softness overcame her, nearly as disturbing as her inclination to spank. With her fingertips, nails bitten down, she pet the photograph where the two were joined.

Weaver’s throat went dry. He wanted to touch her. He'd always wanted to touch her, but it was becoming dire. The raw introduction of pornography in the setting of his home was making him feel exposed and desperate. It had opened Tilly up as a sexual being.

Croaky, he said, “Fond of that, are you love?”

As was often the case with Tilly, she didn’t bullshit. She just didn’t bother with it. She gazed at the picture with clear longing and said, “Yes. I remember the feeling.” Her brow creased, troubled. “It wasn’t always good. But some of it was… I remember.”

The troubled look remained in place. Familiar with her, Weaver felt that she was losing her focus. Her clarity was slipping… sometimes it happened under stress. Gently, he lifted the magazine from her hands and set it aside. She was docile, she let it go.

“Maybe that’s all a bit much for a Saturday morning.” He said.

Vaguely, Tilly asked, “Is it Saturday, then?”

“It ‘tis.”

She rocked a bit, then looked at him. “Are you a bad man?”

How to answer? Yes. No. Sometimes. Often. Define ‘bad’. He nodded, admitting his badness both to Tilly and to himself. He hoped she wouldn’t flee.

She stared at him, assessing. Both in and out of focus. Her cheeks were flushed pink, and Weaver’s cock ached to see the swell of her lips, the darkening of her eyes. She was aroused and it was throwing her off, taking her to a strange place. Perhaps a dark place. He wondered about her past.

Trying to ease out of the delicate pause, he quieted his voice and asked, “Do you want some breakfast, dearie?”

“Weaver eats girl-meat.”

Well, after a fashion. He shrugged a shoulder. Sometimes he wasn’t certain whether or not to answer the parts of her that seemed to stray. His eyes wandered to her inner thigh, to the broad rip in her dark leggings. He could wriggle his fingers under, edge them to the apex of her legs. Then they could discuss girl-meat.

She said, “There are some secrets I keep, detective. Not all is broadcast. Not nearly. I pull off my doll’s head, Marianne, and tell the secrets down her throat. Then I pop her head back on.”

“Indeed?”

Weaver hesitated, but then could no longer stand it. She was too open about the eyes, too excited in body and unsettled in mind. Her vulnerability made him want to eat her alive. Suffering from his own unsettled mind, he reached out and brushed the backs of his fingers to her knee.

She stared for a moment at his hand, then looked back to his face, meeting his eyes.

“Marianne always keeps one eye open and one closed. She’ll never spill, even if you take her head off.”

Weaver moved his hand up to her face. She had a stray eyelash on her cheek, and he captured it between his finger and thumb.

“Make a wish.” He told her, holding the captured eyelash, hidden.

Tilly took such things seriously. Wish-eyelashes, candles, stars. She afforded a measure of respect to all superstition. She fancied herself a rudimentary witch, yet almost curtsied when she encountered nuns, speechless with a weird reverence.

“You’re not Catholic, dearie.” Weaver had pointed out. It didn’t seem to matter. The Virgin Mary, Aphrodite, Wonder Woman… it was all the same.

Tilly closed her eyes and made her wish. Weaver felt it. Was he fooling himself, he wondered? Was it really _his_ wish that he felt? His dick was likely doing its utmost to convince him otherwise… fate was at work, the girl wanted all he had to offer. He couldn’t think straight for the shortage of blood to his brain.

Still, he felt it. He was convinced. There was a shift in the air, something clicked into place. Tilly opened her eyes and looked into his. He eyes showed loneliness and longing… longing to be understood and known, to be devoured.

He swallowed. Speech was difficult. He asked, “Finger or thumb?”

This, in Tilly’s mind, would determine everything. Weaver, too, decided to join in her magical thinking. He would abide by her wish, granted or not. Tilly eyed his hand. She murmured, “Hinkety-pinkety, thumb to thumb. You must break the egg-shells to bits. No… _finger_.”

Weaver separated his forefinger and thumb, and there lay the eyelash, a sweet curl on the pad of his finger. A sleeping faerie, a granter of wishes.

A wolf, he smiled at Tilly. He nurtured thoughts of girl-meat. As if blowing out her birthday candle, she blew the eyelash from his finger. He knew, then, the magic was sealed.

 

 

 

 

 

 


End file.
